THE BALLAD OF TIGGER'S REPRIEVE

The Widow's Daughter purchased him
all basketed, a scrap of fur
to make the Widow's life less grim
and comfort her.

A ginger kitten, amber-eyed
named Tigger, for his stripyness,
became the Widow's joy and pride
and nothing less.

For sixteen years he took his naps
upon the lonely Widow's bed.
On chicken, and on salmon scraps,
and crabsticks fed.

Then, to be near her Daughter's care
she moved to a retirement flat;
her goods and chattels welcomed there;
but not her cat.

The Daughter, having bought the cat
refused to take him in herself,
and Tigger, at the end of that
was on the shelf.

Our hero was quite left behind
at catteries, in northern town,
abandoned to his fate unkind;
to be "Put Down".

But soft! Who comes with tender heart
to mount a speedy rescue mission?
The Widow's Niece, who took his part,
brought manumission.

The Niece and Husband ventured north
upon the M6, queueing slow,
and brought our furry prisoner forth
from his Death Row.

And in his stately golden years
the ginger moggie safe retires,
drinking milk and shedding fur
beside our fire.

Upon our sofa, Tigger purrs
bereft of many of his lives.
Nineteen, a happy pensioner,
the cat survives.